


Flu

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family Fluff, John is stubborn, M/M, Mostly not compliant with The Six Thatchers, Multi, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sick Character, Sickfic, Tumblr Prompt, in that I am willfully ignoring a very large spoiler, mary has the patience of a saint, sympathetic mary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 11:55:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9234059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: Rosie comes down with the flu first. She gives it to her brother, who gives it to their mother, who gives it to John.Well. Notexactly.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyprydian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyprydian/gifts).



> I was bored (and stuck) and asked Tumblr for prompts. LadyPrydian gave me this: "Characters A and B are married with kid(s). Flu season hits the house and EVERYONE is down. Tissues, buckets, soup, and gingerale are in short supply." I don't think she'll mind the inclusion of Character C. 
> 
> (Hey, the world needs more Johnlockary, especially after last week. And yes, I am totally willfully ignoring things. Please note that I write a sympathetic Mary. If you hate her, don't read this, and your life and blood pressure will be much happier for it.)
> 
> Not beta'ed or Brit-picked or anything, so feel free to kick me if you see something glaringly stupid.

Rosie was the first to come down with the flu, which was both surprising and not. Not, because she was eight years old in a classroom of other eight-year-olds who had systematically been getting sick themselves.

Surprising, because John had made a point of giving everyone in the house their flu jab.

“I gave her a flu jab,” said John, when he came home to find Rosie in bed with a temperature of 39.4.

“Yes,” said Mary patiently, “but someone forgot to tell the flu that.”

“Must have been a bad batch,” said John. “I can give everyone their jabs again.”

Mary hooted. “You’re giving Alexander his, in that case.”

Five-year-old Alexander had not taken his jab well. John winced, and rubbed his side where the boy had _bitten_ him in retaliation.

“We’ll just keep her quarantined in her room,” said John.

“Mmm,” said Mary. “That’ll go well.”

“She’s our daughter, of course it’ll go well,” said John. “Alexander’s the one who takes after Sherlock and never stays where you leave him.”

Mary looked far more skeptical. “You’ve met us, right?”

*

The good thing about a fever of 39.4 is that one was disinclined to move from their bed. Rosie, true to her father’s faith in her, remained in her room, curled up under her blankets, re-reading every Horrible Harry in her massive collection, with nary a complaint.

The bad thing about a fever of 39.4 is that one provided quite a lot of comfortable warmth in that bed, and Alexander never stayed where anyone put him. It’s possible that Rosie didn’t complain because Alexander was only too willing to keep her supplied in Horrible Harrys, Malteasers, and cups of orange juice.

Which is probably why he was the next to go down, the following afternoon, with a fever of 39.7.

“I don’t suppose I even have to ask who spilled the orange juice all up the stairs,” sighed Mary, and decided it was easier to let them snuggle together in the bed, miserable and ill, rather than try to separate them.

“Not me,” said Alexander.

“Not me,” said Rosie.

“It was hardly Sherlock, he hasn’t put his nose out of the laboratory in the last two days,” said Mary.

“Good, maybe he won’t catch this,” said John.

Mary tried to hide her smile; it wasn’t something she was very good at doing. “Oh? And here I thought flu jabs were meant to keep us safe from the flu.”

“Bad batch,” repeated John. “I’ll bring home another set tonight for you and me.”

“Might be too late for that,” said Mary wryly, as the two children coughed and squirmed under their covers. The shared bed was already proving to be a bad idea – even sick with fevers, they couldn’t stop kicking and poking at each other.

*

It was too late. Mary woke up the next day with a headache, a scratchy throat, and a cough that sounded as if she’d smoked a pack a day for fifty years straight.

“I should lay in supplies,” said John.

“Yes, do that,” said Mary, and tried to hack up the other lung.

The day was miserable. Rosie’s fever had broken but she was still a pitiful mess. Alexander still had the fever but refused to acknowledge it, particularly since Rosie was no longer confined to her bedroom, so instead he roamed the house, wrapped in a blanket, wailing about how Rosie _would not stop_ moving. Rosie was still too tired to do much of anything but flop from couch to chair to windowpane, moaning about her boredom – and even this was too much movement for poor Alexander, who curled up on the floor like a slug, with only the tufts of his curly black hair sticking out of one end of the blanket.

Sherlock had been in his laboratory for _three days_. Mary knew he was alive, at least – she’d seen evidence of his midnight ramblings in the kitchen to prove it, and every so often, there was a loud thump from the attic. But the sign remained on the door: “Do Not Disturb, Sensitive Project in Progress, Yes John This Includes You, Mary Distract Him Please.”

“How long is your father’s experiment meant to run?” she asked Alexander.

Alexander burst into tears. “You don’t like me. Sherlock’s only my father when you’re _upset_.”

Mary let out a pained sigh and gathered her son into her arms. “Oh, darling. I like you tons. I just don’t like your flu.”

“I don’t like it either. Take it away.”

“Trying to, love. It would help if you stayed in bed.”

“Bed’s boring.”

Mary tried to hold back the hysterical laughter. Rosie didn’t mind being laughed at; Alexander _abhorred_ it.

“Can I have lemonade?” asked Alexander, pitiful and small.

“Of course,” said Mary.

But they were out of lemonade. They were also out of ginger ale, and orange juice, and there was only four slices of bread left for toast.

“John will be home soon,” said Mary, and coughed up her spleen.

*

John was home soon.

Mary knew the moment he came in, not because she saw him – her eyes were closed in an attempt to convince the children she was napping – but because she heard him coughing as he slumped against the door.

“Oh God,” she groaned. “What’s your temp?”

“Bad batch,” said John, and slid down to the floor.

“Tell me you brought home tissues. Or lemonade. Or a firing squad.”

There was a long pause.

“I love you?”

“We’re all going to die,” realized Mary, and coughed up her esophagus.

*

“Rosie’s fault,” said Mary. “I told you she was the anti-Christ.”

“No, I said that. You said she was a demon spawn.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You were sleep deprived, you don’t remember.”

“You were sexting a redhead, you were distracted.”

“I think it’s very unfair of you to bring that up eight years later when I am dying in our bed—"

“You were sexting a redhead, I am going to bring it up as often as appropriate and Sherlock would agree.”

“Where is that bastard anyway?”

“In his laboratory. If he’s clever, he’ll stay up there until this has passed through the house.”

“He’s not sick?”

“Of course not, he’s been up there since before Rosie came down with it. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him.”

“It’s just…”

“What?”

“Rosie was sick one day, and then Alexander was sick the next?”

“Yes.”

“That’s quite quick, isn’t it? For flu? Usually it’s two or three days incubation.”

“But if it’s two or three days incubation, then Rosie couldn’t have given it to Alexander. Or him to me, or me to you.”

“Right, which means…”

“You don’t think he’s been up there sick this whole time?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.”

“We should go check on him. Make sure he at least has ibuprofen, or tissues, or… oh, that _bugger_. That’s why we keep running out of things. He’s sneaking down at night and taking them all.”

“He might not realize he’s gotten us all sick.”

“Sod that, I want my orange juice back.”

“I’ll get it. In just a minute.”

“I’m right behind you.”

Neither of them moved.

“Maybe a nap first.”

“Yes, nap first.”

And they fell asleep.

*

It was late in the afternoon of the fourth day, and the dying sunlight was creeping into the room where John and Mary slept. The children were curled up with them on the king-size bed, and for once, no one was coughing, though that was more likely by chance than anything else.

None of them heard the sound of the attic laboratory door open, or the heavy footsteps coming down the stairs accompanying by a jaunty whistle.

Sherlock was still faintly pale, but his temperature was back to normal, his head was clear, and he was feeling rather peckish after days and days of nothing but toast, lemonade, and orange juice.

Also his experiment had been a delightful success, thanks to Mary keeping everyone from disturbing him. Normally the children and John were up and down the stairs, banging away, begging for attention. Instead, he hadn’t heard so much as a peep from anyone.

Just as well he’d holed himself up the moment he realized he was getting sick. If he’d gotten the rest of the family sick, Mary would never let him hear the end of it.

He found them all curled up in the bed in the biggest bedroom. Sherlock smiled at his family – easy to be sentimental when they were asleep and didn’t notice him, and also when they’d been so kind as to leave him alone in his flu-ridden misery.

If he had been Molly Hooper, he’d have thought of doing something nice for them. If he’d been Mrs. Hudson, he might have gone to make them tea, bundle the children back to their respective bedrooms. If he’d been Lestrade, he’d have crawled up into the bed between John and Mary and woken them up for a giggle – and a few other things too.

But he was Sherlock Holmes, and he’d just solved three cases and one of Mycroft’s rather banal mysteries, and it was barely 3pm.

So instead, he left them all to continue sleeping soundly, and skipped off to Scotland Yard, happy in the knowledge that his family was safe and sound at home, and completely unaware that he’d successfully switched John’s flu jabs with a placebo in order to prove their pointlessness.

He’d have to tell John in the morning.

(Or maybe never. Never was probably the wiser choice.)


End file.
